What're You So Worried About
by Sparticus328
Summary: Sherlock lay stretched out on the sofa, his feet crossed and his hands steepled beneath his chin. Every now and then, his toes wriggled...


**A/N: Written between the hours of 11PM and 4AM, because I'm crazy. I just spent a few hours… it wouldn't leave me alone. Just really sweet fluffiness. Takes place somewhere in a fictitious series 3…**

**Disclaimer: I miss them so much!**

* * *

><p>What're You So Worried About<p>

* * *

><p>Sherlock lay stretched out on the sofa, his feet crossed and his hands steepled beneath his chin. Every now and then, his toes wriggled.<p>

"What're you so worried about?" The doctor asked, his voice quiet.

Sherlock fidgeted. "I hardly think I'm worried, John." He shifted, turning to sit with his feet on the floor. One hand stretched back to scratch at the side of his head.

"Stop that. I don't want you tearing through the stitches." John stood from his seat to approach. He reached out, but stopped when Sherlock dropped his hand.

"It itches."

"Don't whine. I told you it would itch." John went to the kitchen, cautiously opening the freezer drawer. He poked around, moving a container of frozen… something chunky suspended in crystallized blood. He plucked an ice pack from the top tray and returned, wrapping the ice in a tea towel he had taken from a hook near the sink.

Sherlock watched John's progress. He eyed the ice pack suspiciously.

John sat beside him on the sofa, his hand on the detective's shoulder. "Let me see." He turned Sherlock's head away, a gentle hand at his jaw. The line of stitches had pulled a bit, drying blood crusting at the sutures. His fingers brushed the shaved section over his ear.

Sherlock sat quietly as John checked the injury. He flinched when the ice pack was applied. "Is that really necessary?" He tried to squirm away from the cold.

"Your scalp is swollen, and the stitches are pulling… yeah, it's necessary." John batted the detective's hand away.

Sherlock settled, plying to the firm hand John pressed to his shoulder, keeping him in his seat. He pouted. "It's cold. It affects my ear… "

"But not your hearing." John shifted the ice pack, settling it above the soft curve of cartilage. "Just for a few minutes."

"This is ridiculous." Sherlock slumped, his arms across his knees. "It's hardly an injury."

"Having a knife fight in a dirty alleyway, being knocked unconscious…" John sighed. They had already argued about it. "Why didn't you tell me where you were going? A text, Sherlock? Anything?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"I had no idea…" John switched hands on the ice, stretching his cold fingers. "Mycroft didn't even know where you'd gone. And he can track just about everything."

"When you've spent as much time as I have finding ways to avoid my brother, eluding his attention becomes rather simple." Sherlock slowly leaned against the back of the sofa, John following with the ice pack.

"I didn't know where you'd gone, Sherlock." The doctor swallowed thickly. "I don't like not knowing, not being there…"

"And you said I was worried…" The detective looked sideways at the older man.

"You were… now you're being petulant…" John removed the ice, checking on the swelling.

"So dramatic, John." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "If you really want to know, yes, I'm worried. I'm worried it's too much. I always get into these situations, and you always bandage me up… I can't help but wonder, is there an end to your patience with my… habits?"

John dropped the ice pack to the coffee table. "I lose my patience with you all the time." John leaned back, propping himself on the arm of the sofa. "But, that's not what you mean, is it?"

Sherlock tipped forward, leaning into John's chest. "Not entirely, no." He crossed his hands, setting his chin against his fingers.

John stared at him, his hand brushing through the fringe on the uninjured side of the detective's head. "You're mad. And I'm mad for loving you. But I won't give it up… not for anything."

They sat together, quietly staring at one another, John's hand listlessly working through Sherlock's hair.

"Though, it would be nice to meet you at home after work…" He let out a breath. "Do you know, I'm on a first name basis with the entire nursing staff at Saint Bart's?"

Sherlock sat up, his eyes hard.

"You are worried." John sat up with him. "You think one of them is going to attract me? Sherlock Holmes… you don't know yourself at all."

"It's happened before…"

"Yes. Before. Before I had any idea that your silly claim at Angelo's was a defensive mechanism. Before we…" John stopped. "When did you start thinking this way?"

"This morning… at emergency… She was small, and blonde… And you smiled at her." Sherlock stiffened.

"You're jealous." John smiled, his eyes crinkling.

"Don't laugh."

John held up his hands defensively. "I'm sorry, but that is…" He pressed his lips together, stemming his mirth. "You're incredible. The most dangerous criminal mastermind barely shakes you. And you waver because of jealousy."

Sherlock stood, his face pinched.

John got to his feet. He tugged Sherlock around with a hand to his hip. "I don't mean to prod at you." John stooped, looking around the hair hanging in the detective's face. He scooped the curls back, careful of the stitches. "I love you. Do you doubt that?"

Sherlock draped his arms around John, leaning against him. "I don't deserve you, John. I didn't deserve you as a friend. I don't deserve you now… You're so good. I hurt… whenever I think about you leaving."

"I'm not leaving, Sherlock." John tipped the detective's head back, catching his eyes. "I'm here because of you. All of you. You have your own gravity, you draw me in."

"Like a black hole."

John let go, stepping back. His face closed off. A low threatening rumble escaped him. "Who told you that?"

Sherlock shook his head. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters, Sherlock."

Sherlock shook his head. He put a hand to the side of his head. "I have a headache." Sherlock pulled away, veering to the hall by the kitchen.

John moved to stop him, a hand to his cheek. But the tired look in the detective's eyes told him the fatigue was hitting him.

"Alright." He let his hand drift away. "Go lay down-no experiments, and no Mind Palace. Just rest. I'll be there in a bit."

Sherlock nodded mutely, moving away in the direction of the back bedroom.

"Hey," John called after him quietly. The detective stopped and turned. "I love you."

Sherlock closed his eyes, taking in a long breath. "And I you."

He shuffled on his way, under John's watchful gaze.

As the detective passed the door way, John pulled his mobile from the table beside his chair. He dialed quickly.

"Mycroft. I need some information…"

* * *

><p>When John finished his call, he followed Sherlock to the bedroom, pulling off his jumper along the way.<p>

He dropped it on the back of a chair as he passed through the kitchen, ignoring it when it didn't stay.

He stepped through the door to find Sherlock curled up on his side of the bed, his nose buried in the doctor's pillow. John smiled at the sight. The man still claimed to not sleep much… But if the soft snore he heard in the early hours before the sun came up was any indication, Sherlock slept just as much as John. And he preferred to sleep curled around the doctor, his face snuggled into John's neck.

John ended around the bed, taking the detective's usual spot. As John settled on the mattress, Sherlock abandoned the pillow in favor of the man himself.

Sherlock mumbled incoherently and tucked his nose into the doctor's throat.

He had seen the scans and was confidant there was no concussion to worry over. Thankfully, Sherlock had called Lestrade and the police had apprehended their suspect, pulling him from the detective before more severe damage could have been done.

It still bothered him. The fact that he hadn't been there, or even known about the danger… until he got the call from the emergency room.

There had been so much blood… but the wound was superficial… Still, the sight of it had sent his heart into overtime, the sick feeling of loss crippling him.

Sherlock's arms came around him. "We're alright, John…" He trailed off.

John wasn't sure if it had been a statement or a question.

He let himself relax. It didn't matter. Whether Sherlock was giving the assurance or asking for it, John would tell him again until the detective really trusted it.

"I love you."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thank you, KoraM852. You're reaction was perfect. Exactly what I hoped for! Thank you, Gameson221b. Your patience and understanding are so kind. This is the first step to getting back to our boys.**

**All thoughts are welcome! Please review…**


End file.
